Smoke
by matt.harper
Summary: 1925, New York City. Danger thrives in the shadows amidst a cataclysm of life, murder and deadly love. But no one is safe when Ghosts walk the streets of Manhattan... *UNDERGOING REVISION*
1. Luckies

**Authors Note: A quick note before we begin.**

**I'm hesitant about posting this; I had the idea floundering around in my mind for a few weeks before I decided to at least get it out on paper (or rather computer), not even really considering posting it. The first chapter is done, but I feel I must say that I'm really not sure about whether it can or will continue. Life's quite busy right now, but perhaps if support is strong enough, I can try to find the time to continue, though I can make no promises. In any case, I hope you enjoy, and reviews (even short ones) are much appreciated.**

McG, or so he had named himself, didn't like waiting at the best of times, let alone on a freezing night on a dimly lit Manhattan street corner for the likes of Ghost.

McG sighed in irritation, not for the first time that night, before taking another hearty drag from the crumbling cigarette between two bruised fingers; _this should have been Carnie's job_, he thought bitterly, _stupid greaser had to go and get himself shot_. He tapped his cigarette impatiently, watching the ashes crumble and fall to the pavement. _I should've been out on the job, preferably with Leggy and Frost, _he added as an afterthought,_ instead of waiting around for this lunatic. _

He would never admit it to his colleagues, he wasn't _that_ stupid, but McG didn't at all like his new boss. He'd never been the type to have much respect of authority, then again; for as long as he could remember he had openly despised his big, drunken lug of a father and felt more or less the same for his mother, who had been gifted with the unfortunate task of naming her son. Harry McGary,_ Honestly, what in the name of Jesus was the broad thinking?_

He had never bothered to look much into the family history, and therefore didn't know much of it, apart from his grandfather's immigration from Scotland to New York some time during the late 19th century. He wasn't much interested in family in general. His father, a failed businessman turned jobless drunk, treated him with open distain (which he gladly returned), and there really wasn't much to be said for his mother, who for some years after realising she had married promise-less gink, seemed to wither away into a self-induced madness.

At eighteen he had joined the army in hopes of escaping such a life of permanent destitution, and at first he seemed prised for a long and illustrious career. His commanding officer had called him one of the most naturally talented gunmen he had ever seen, and there was a certain satisfaction from pulling the trigger on a target he could never quite equal with anything else. Unfortunately, his aversion to authority had won out in the end, and his inability to follow orders had gifted him with a dishonourable discharge. His skills with a weapon never withered, though, and after over a decade in the business of manufacturing fake documentation and laying the occasional hit, he'd been approached by a man known most commonly as simply 'Frost', who candidly asked him whether or not he wanted in on 'the greatest job of your life'.

The rewards it promised still brought a manic grin to his lips. That had been but a few months beforehand, and shortly after he'd had his first meeting with the man they called Ghost. _That _memory brought him nothing but shivers.

But Ghost, he thought, was (for it was the most appropriate word he could think of) _different_. He wasn't some idiot mug that didn't know what he was doing._ Couldn't be further from it_, he had to admit; the man, if you could even call him that, was the epitome of danger. He was practically Death incarnate.

The faint sound of a scuffle to his left caught his startled attention, causing him to drop his cigarette in the process. A mangy, black cat came darting out of a dark alleyway, bounding off down the moonlit street and into the night. McG forced himself to breath deeply, trying to calm his heart he now realised was pounding fiercely in his chest, an uncharacteristic apprehension having set over him.

He frowned at his accidently discarded cigarette, craving another drag if simply to calm his nerves. He rummaged through the pockets of his long coat, searching for his packet of his favourite Luckies. His hand eventually closed around the small carton, only to have it instantly collapse under his grip. _Empty_.

He bit back a curse and continued to search desperately through his coat pockets, hoping he still had a stick of Old Gold that Frost had given him the previous week.

His breath seemed to catch in his throat as a disembodied, leather-clad hand suddenly appeared out of the darkness into the light of the adjacent street lamp. Between to gloved fingers was a thick, deep brown cigar. The strange nervousness beginning to seep in even more deeply, McG slowly raised his eyes from the gloved hand to the expanse of shadow just beyond the streetlight, where (not at all to his surprise) he spied two faint, golden lights that he knew to be eyes.

He nodded, praying to appear to appear confident despite his growing apprehension, "Boss."

He received no reply, the eyes continuing to stare at him through the darkness. The gloved hand didn't move.

Gingerly, he pushed himself away from the wall against which he had been leaning. Sensing no sudden changes in his Boss's behaviour to indicate he should do otherwise, he slowly stepped forward into the light of the street lamp and slipped the cigar from the shadowy man's fingers, careful not to brush them with his own (he didn't seem the type to welcome much physical contact, even from his colleagues).

He placed the cigar between his lips and made to retrieve his match box from his trouser pocket, when in the space of a mere second (or so it seemed), the gloved hand retreated into the darkness only to reappear, this time holding a ready-lit match in its long digits. Mystified (and perhaps still somewhat nervous), he slowly bent his body forward until the end of the cigar hovered just near the flame. He had to puff on the cigar for several moments before it caught alight (the freezing air wasn't helping), then straightened up to take a deep drag. He let out a pleasurable sigh as he expelled the smoke from his lungs, the familiar taste already calming his nerves.

"Thanks." He said to his peculiar employer, almost forgetting why he was so nervous about this... man in the first place.

"I was expecting The Ringmaster," spoke the shadowy figure in a daunting, yet hypnotic tenor voice. The quality of it was somewhere indistinguishable between frightening and yet strangely alluring, "You yourself are supposed to be taking care of our little _problem_, are you not?"

McG couldn't help but note the distinct lack of apology for any lateness in his employers speech, yet the slightly accusing tone in which he spoke sent another faint ripple of panic through him.

"Car- uh, the Ringmaster got 'imself injured _taking care of _our other 'ittle problem. Got it done, but the sap put up a fight. Shot in the leg. 'E's hidin' away at his brothers in Brooklyn. Weak gee..." he said, unable to keep the resentment from his tone.

The man in the shadows said nothing. As the silence ticked past, McG couldn't help but begin to question his reasons for being there; he had first refused to play messenger boy to a boss that rarely seemed to bother gracing his own employees with his presence, only to receive a harsh look and a snide tone from Frost, "Alright, don't then ya weak jobbie, just remember what happened to Mickey."  
That had been enough to convince him to meet with his mysterious boss; he'd rather put a slug in his own brain than end up like Mickey.

He took another drag to try and banish the morbid thought from his head. The silence was becoming agonizing.

He forced himself to look at the glowing yellow lights, and he felt a strange chill go down his spine that had nothing to do with the temperature, "Frost gave the third to the dope peddler. He didn't know nothin'. When Leggy and Frost are through and we move on to the job Queens-"  
"-You and those other two incompetents will not be setting foot outside of Manhattan." Snapped the Boss in a particularly sharp tone that sent yet more shivers through him, "Our informant has been compromised. Attempting a hit on Beauxis right now would be nothing short of mass suicide. I do however have a new assignment for you, though I had been intending to entrust it to the Ringmaster..."

McG, excited by the prospect of an individual assignment, opened his mouth before he could stop himself, "What is it it?"

Ghost paused, then, "An associate of Beauxis at this time known only as 'Pierre' has caught my attention. I do not want him killed, no. I pray that he should be of some use to us."

"What do you want me to do?" said McG, hearing the eagerness in his own voice.

"I want this 'Pierre' followed. As it happens, Beauxis is seemingly sending him back to Paris the day after next. You shall be tailing him."

McG faltered, "_Paris?_ But-"

"-But what?" said Ghost, the hint of a snarl imprinted into his voice, "Do you not wish to? Are you so positively arrogant about your apparent skills with a weapon that you consider such an assignment of merely keeping tabs on someone beneath you? Perhaps you would prefer to be in Frost's place, wasting bullets on other incompetents, would that suit you?"  
McG swallowed deeply, trying to quell the nervous fear that was now attacking him with relentless force, "No, no." he choked out, "I'll go. I will."

For a moment, the Ghost said nothing. After several beats of silence, the gloved hand briefly reappeared out of the darkness as it tossed a flat, brown envelope at McG's feet. "Those are your instructions. Follow them _exactly_ as written." Said the Boss, a hint of a threat in his distinctive voice, "Do not tell the others of your assignment. I prefer that this remain secretive. _Do not disappoint me_."  
McG retrieved the envelope from the pavement. It was thicker and heavier than it first appeared, and McG wondered what possible importance this character could have to his Boss.  
But as he looked back into the shadows, the little yellow lights were gone. The Ghost man had vanished into the night; it was moments like this that made McG wonder if perhaps it was all just a strange madness, if he had ever really been there at all...


	2. Company

Author's Note: Looks like this is going to continue for now, it's turning out to be rather fun to write, but your support is much needed and wholeheartedly appreciated. Please review, and hope you enjoy.

By the time it's host had arrived, the party was in full swing.

Philippe de Changy stared approvingly around the gallery of his luxury apartment, a satisfied smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth. The floor and high walls were made of beautiful off-white marble, the ceiling supported by tall, marble Greek pillars. A magnificent crystal chandelier suspended from the high ceiling by a single golden chain cast a luminescent glow over his horde of guests, all clad in lavish formal attire. The pleasant sounds of a grand piano resonated from the far corner of the room, situated by an impressive pair of elegant French doors that lead a spacious balcony overlooking the Eastern edge of Central Park. A grand place it was- Philippe felt there should be nothing less for the heir to the house of de Changy. He was a noble by birthright, after all.

Of course, he wasn't the only current occupant of this fine residence he was reminded as a familiar figure pushed its way through the mass of tailcoats and evening gowns toward him, an expression of frazzled concern upon an otherwise handsome face.

Philippe surveyed his brother's approaching figure. They had looked so similar as young boys- golden-haired and fair, each with a distinct pair of deep blue eyes- people often mistook them for twins, despite Philippe's being several years his only sibling's senior. Only when the pair reached adolescence and Philippe grew broad and strong-featured did their differences become apparent.

Philippe privately thought it was long overdue that his younger brother found a residence entirely of his own- the boy, or rather man, having just recently surpassed his twentieth birthday- but, as Philippe reminded himself as he admired the gallery room once more, it was easy to see why he would be hesitant to leave.

"Where have you been?" said Raoul de Changy as he emerged from the crowd at his brothers nearside, his boyishly handsome features coming into clear view. "You were supposed to be back hours ago..."

Philippe placed a firm hand on his brother's coat-adorned shoulder and steered him toward the piano, which was now performing a soft, pleasant melody amidst the steady hum of chatter and laughter of his guests, "How am I to be fashionably late if I am early to my own party? Besides, I only had a few minor business matters to take care of before I could return home, little brother." He said as he glanced admiringly in passing at a blonde female with a tall, willowy physique and full, sensuous red lips. "You seem to be handling your duties as host just fine without me anyway."

Philippe could tell his brother was tense. Being a member of the aristocracy as well as having direct ties to foreign nobility meant that extravagant soirées and formal socializing were a habitual practice from an early age, but now that he considered it, Philippe supposed this was the first time Raoul had been left to flounder entirely on his own. Raoul was certainly sociable, Philippe couldn't recall his brother ever publically faltering in his manners or general affability, but he didn't possessive the same suavity as Philippe, the power to preach to people and have them hang on his every word.

"Where were you anyway?" said Raoul as his brother continued to maneuver him through the thicket of guests, nodding politely at various people as he passed, "You're meeting would have barely gone on into the afternoon."

Philippe hesitated. He knew he shouldn't be nervous, there was no way Raoul could have known anything Philippe didn't want him to, but it wasn't like his brother to be suspicious. "Nowhere of importance, dear brother. Just taking care of a little problem..."

Raoul's eyes turned quizzically towards his brother, "Problem? What proble-"

"George! Have you met George, Raoul? He's one of the finest pianists in Manhattan- but of course, you would have met when he played for us at New Years... how about something with a little more zest, George? As much as I enjoy Mozart I'd rather not have my guests being serenaded to sleep at my party."

"Yessir." Replied the slight, ginger-haired man sat at the piano. The soft melody changed to a more lively collection of chords and Philippe pushed on with his brother through the open set of French doors out into the brisk night air.

In truth, Philippe thought the man George was a mediocre musician at best. He knew he could pluck any Negro sat at a piano from any dim and dirty Jazz club in Harlem and he would have twice the musician young George was, but such to have such a person at an event such as this one was completely out of the question. Philippe had learnt from a young age that everyone had their place in the world- his was amongst the elite of society, and others were simply- for lack of a better word- lower.

Three men Philippe recognised as wealthy and thus important bankers- or were they stockbrokers? - whom he vaguely recalled placing on the guest list were standing in a small circle on the stone balcony conversing and smoking cigars. He offered a jovial greeting to them, giving one of them a friendly touch on the shoulder, and requested that he might have a private word with his brother. It may have sounded discourteous, had it come from anyone else, but Philippe knew he had a certain talent for getting people to do whatever he pleased.

The three men retreated inside, the last one handily pulling the doors shut behind him.

"Bach."

Philippe stared at his brother, dropping his hand to his side, "Pardon?"

"That was Bach, not Mozart." replied Raoul as he turned away from his brother, slouched against the brick wall that joined the stone balcony and stared across at the dark silhouettes and speckled lights that divided the moonless nighttime horizon. Even in the dark Philippe knew they were the distant forms of buildings. The tallest buildings in the world, he supposed.

Philippe eyed his brother curiously, searching his pockets for a cigar. "Since when did you posses any interest in the arts?"

Raoul said nothing but withdrew a pack of cigarettes from his inside coat pocket and offered one to Philippe.

Realisation dawned on Philippe as he studied his brother's somewhat irked expression, "For the love of God, you're not still strung up over that opera girl are you?" he said as he took the offered cigarette.

"I am." Replied the younger de Changy unusually bluntly as he replaced his cigarettes to his coat pocket, declining to join his brother. "I barely get the chance to see her with everything going on at the company... I want to marry her, Philippe."

Philippe paused. He had suspected for several years now that a day such as this would come. Slowly, he reached toward a lit wall lantern that was imbedded into the brick wall about half a foot above his brother's blonde head. Prying the small glass door open, he lighted his cigarette on the small flame that flickered brightly in there and placed it between his lips. Moving to stand in front of his brother, he took a deep drag and exhaled over the edge of the balcony.

"Raoul," he said solemnly, "I want you to think seriously about what you're saying- No, don't look at me like that, just listen for a moment, dear brother. One of the most important lessons our father ever taught me is that we all have our place in the world- society draws certain lines for us, and it is our responsibility not to disrespect those lines. You're place in the world, dear brother, is not in the backstage of a rundown theatre on the arm of a chorus-girl- you're place is here, Raoul!" he gestured with wide arms to the lavish apartment and spectacular views on either side of them. "Up here, on top of the whole damn world, with _us_... beside _me _as head of the company."

Raoul looked up sharply at Philippe, "What? You mean-"

Philippe smiled triumphantly, placing a hand on Raoul's shoulder, knowing he had won. At least for now. "Consider it a promotion, if you wish. We'll be partners, Raoul, as heads of the entire Changy corporation... You will have the world at your feet."

Philippe could see his brother hesitating. He had to think quickly, "You may take your pleasures where you find them, little brother, I care little about that, but let's not have anymore talk of this marriage business for now. You are so young Raoul; sometimes I forgot how young you really are. You have all the time in the world for marriage and everything else, but the company needs you now. The family needs you. _I_ need you, Raoul."

Philippe lifted his hand from his brother's shoulder and offered it forward, inviting a handshake. A moment later, Raoul shook his brother's hand, and Philippe's face split into a victorious grin.

The rest of the evening seemed to pass in a flurry of cigars and second-rate chamber music, most of which Philippe spent in small circles of important men laughing and smoking or discreetly flirting with every attractive female in the room, unattached or otherwise. Raoul appeared comfortable as he drifted around the room between different circles, years of practice working their way into the distinctly noble he carried himself- _a true de Changy, _Philippe thought with a satisfied pride.  
At some point during the evening, scores of fine crystal glasses and inconspicuous numbers of bottles of vintage spirits made an appearance in the gallery room. Philippe was not naïve; such an activity was as common amongst the elite as it was in any dark and clandestine bar in New York. He was almost regretful to part with such fine drink that otherwise would certainly have sold for a small fortune, but he felt presenting such elite company with anything else would be an insult. Moreover, alternatives were no longer so easy to come by without the use of dubious means.

No sooner had he poured himself his second- or was it third? - glass of champagne then did one of the hired waiters inform him that their was someone at the front door. Glancing at his late Father's pocket watch that he carried with him at all times, deciding no decent man would ever make an appearance at this hour, Philippe excused himself from the gallery and strode out into the grand entrance hall- constructed of a similar marble to that of the gallery- toward the main door. A second look at his pocket watch made him wonder where the time had gone that evening.  
Reaching the door- fine, carved wood with polished brass handles- he pulled it open and for a moment saw nothing but the plain expanse of cream coloured wall across from him. A quick glance down either side of the carpeted but otherwise empty corridor told him nothing. He was about to return inside when he spotted a thin, white envelope by his feet. Overcome by a strange mix of uncontrollable curiosity and apprehension, he bent down and plucked the envelope from the floor. The material was thick and evidently of good quality. Glancing back over his shoulder to make sure no one had followed him out of the party room, Philippe tore off the end of the envelope and unfolded the single sheet of paper inside.

The message contained nothing more than an address he knew to be less than fifteen minutes away by car, but it was the signature at the bottom that caused his entire frame stiffen and his cravat to feel entirely too tight around his throat. The distant sounds of a piano and rambunctious babble floated in his ears, but he knew better than to ignore such an invitation (for lack of a more appropriate word). Turning back inside, he reached for the coat closet situated just to the left of the front door and shed his formal jacket for the thick overcoat that hung on the back of the door. He slipped a shaky hand into the inside pocket and immediately calmed when his fingertips touched cool metal. Taking one last look toward the door to the gallery, convincing himself his brother could handle the party without him, Philippe strode out into the outside corridor, pulling the door to his apartment quietly but firmly shut behind him.

His pace quickened considerably as he turned down the corridor toward the staircase, thinking it unlikely there would still be an attendant at the elevator at this hour. Another right-hand turn and he arrived at two sets of stairs- one leading upward to the floor above and the other below. He hurried down the stairs as fast as his legs would allow him, pausing only briefly to catch his breath after he had descended what felt like ten floors, the heavy weight of his coat straining somewhat on his shoulders. He descended countless more floors until he arrived at the ground floor, a spacious area that had little other than the bottom end of the elevator shaft and the foot of the staircase that lead to the floors above. He strode quickly across the floor and out through the double front doors, immediately glad he had changed his coat as a gust of freezing wind wafted into his bare face. He considered walking around to the other side of the complex where his Rolls Royce was kept in a small hired garage, though quickly realised the keys for the heavily bolted door were still in his apartment.

A sudden movement in the right corner of his eye caught his attention and he turned his head sharply, only to see a shabby black cat scamper down the dimly lit sidewalk toward him, pausing under a streetlight approximately ten yards form where he stood. Its filthy, skeletal body was hunched over and its pair of gleaming yellow eyes were alert, as if it were preparing for a sudden attack. For a moment, Philippe thought the animal looked directly at him- straight into his eyes- before turning sharply and leaping away with surprising elegance into the darkness. Philippe stared into the shadows after it for a moment before physically shaking himself, the urgency of the situation returning to him.

He started off down the street almost at a run. The wayward shadows that crisscrossed the street in front of him, created by the tall buildings surrounding him and the streetlamps that lined the path, were nothing short of eerie, and he began to notice a sensation that felt almost like a tickling on the back of his neck. As though he were being watched. He paused glancing nervously at his dim surroundings. He wanted to shake himself again, _For Christ's sake- don't be such a child_. He set off again, telling himself that the sooner he got whatever sordid business this was over with, the sooner he could return to his apartment.  
But he didn't return to the party that night, and when a single gunshot rang out in to the air in the early hours of the morning, no one in the de Changy apartment heard a thing.


	3. Patience

Author's Note: Some of you may consider the end of this one something of a teaser/cliffhanger, but I felt it was necessary for the story to keep moving forward. Also, some lines in this chapter are taken directly from a transcript of Shakespeare's _Romeo and Juliet_. As such, they are not mine, and nor do I hold any claim over them. As always, review and keep reading.

* * *

Some said the theatre was haunted.

There were plenty of rumours, as there always are with such things; whispers of various items that would simply disappear without a trace, stagehands that would swear on the name of God that sometimes late at night, when no one else was about, they would hear haunting melodies from the vacant piano, as if it were being played by a ghost.

But few believed in such things. Many thought the stories were simply an invention of the manager in a weak attempt to gather some much needed publicity. In truth, the manager was just as skeptical as anyone.

_If we did have a ghost, we might have a full house for once_, thought Charlie Jack as he stared pensively at the bundle of papers clutched tightly in his hands, eyes darting between clusters of numbers that dotted each page. He glanced at another sheaf of paper laid on his desk, and instantly came to a conclusion that had been plaguing him for the last week.  
"Shit."

There was no escaping it; the takings figures were desperately low, and the aggregate monthly bill seemed even higher than the last, despite every attempt to cut back. He had known for months he was fighting a losing battle, but now it seemed the wounds were beginning to hemorrhage.

He would be the first to admit the Garnier Theatre wasn't exactly much to look at; he had seen structures that were perhaps even more unattractive, the Brooklyn slums and the like, but the truth was most people simply walked right passed it without realising it was there. Those who did notice it saw that it seemed to be squeezed in an impossibly small space between a bustling coffee shop and a larger, vacant building that had likely been a theatre itself in years gone.

The theatre itself was a simple, three-storey brick building with curved arch windows and a basic canvas awning above the main entrance- even the painted vertical sign secured to the façade of the building was often cast into shadow by the larger structure next door. Ironically, it still bore the original version of the name of the theatre: _Le Théâtre Garnier_. It had become a common joke amongst the few people who worked at the theatre that the original owner must have been hopelessly optimistic to name such a mediocre building after the famously grand Parisian opera house- it was inescapably unimpressive.

Charlie himself thought the original manager must have been an appalling bookkeeper as well. There were almost no accounts from the original ownership; he didn't even know when it was actually built. At the time, he couldn't believe that anyone in their right mind would sell him the building for such rock-bottom price.

_I'm a bloody fool, _he thought, _and I know why._

Maybe it had been doomed from the start, he thought. Maybe it had been a stupid decision to buy a rundown theatre, maybe it had been utterly mad to actually try and make a legitimate business out of it with next-to-no money to invest in it. All he knew was that it was failing, _and there's bugger-all I can do to fix it._

He folded his arms over his desk and laid his head on them dejectedly. Perhaps he should have thrown in the towel while he had still been marginally ahead. Maybe if he pawned it off on some other foolish soul and walked away before this sinking ship dragged its captain down with it, he could make his way home. Take a low-paying, levelheaded job, settle down and live out the rest of his hopeless life jaded and penitent.

He let a despaired moan. He wasn't sure which he preferred- destitution or the mundane.

He thought about his childhood; growing up in a life of snobbish English privilege; skipping most of his tedious lessons until he was expelled, then doing the same at whatever private school his parents sent him to next; paying handsomely to illicitly board a cargo ship to America at twenty-one years old after receiving a formal letter informing him he had been drafted for military service.

He supposed his whole life he had simply been bored: bored by the pretense of the upper class, bored by his schoolings and the seriousness of the sciences and economics, bored by an idle life of riches and no ambition.

He shook the thought from his head. Returning to England was out of the question. Lifting his head from his arms, he looked again at the daunting figures before him, feeling even more hopeless than before, _And down to the depths we go... _

He thought about this ship- or rather theatre- that he was apparently doomed to sink with. The inside of the building seemed to be constructed almost entirely of dark, grainy wood, and what was not was clad in chipped plaster. Signs of neglect were had begun to seep their way into the building in the last year or so, from loose floorboards in the stage to every wailing moan from the staircases whenever anyone trudged up and down them.

The first floor housed the entrance hall and stage and seating areas. The entrance room gave the impression a reception area of a hotel (though a very mediocre one at that) with a large wooden desk that stood adjacent to the far wall and an aged wooden staircase that from certain angles seemed to lean sideways as it ascended to the floor above. Beyond the entrance was the stage and audience area, which contained no more than a few hundred freestanding, crushed-velvet seats. The stage, and the entire room itself, appeared deep though uncomfortable narrow, as though it were being squeezed through a large tube. The deep maroon colour of the huge stage curtains combined with the vast amounts of dark wood gave the entire room a dark, cramped appearance. The only thing of true value in the entire theatre he could recall was a beautiful, antique piano that the original owner had probably been too ignorant to realise was valuable. When he had first taken over the theatre, he had hopes of producing classic operettas and some of the more modern musicals, but he had since had to dismiss all his musicians, and now the piano lay dormant, tucked away behind the stage curtains.

There was no backstage to speak of, only two more sets of stairs hidden on either side of the stage that led to the second storey, which housed an assortment of dressing rooms, storage space for props and costumes and a single ascending staircase.

The third and final floor consisted of only two rooms on either side of a long hallway. The first had been converted into a makeshift recreation room, with a scattering of chairs and a Brunswick phonograph. The second was the very office he found himself in, which itself was cluttered with chairs, bookshelves and a heavy wooden desk.

_Sure as hell wouldn't hang around this joint if I were a ghost_, Charlie thought bitterly. _Got to be better places to haunt than this_...

A sharp rap at the door tore him from his thoughts. He was about to yell at whomever it was to go away, but almost immediately there was a soft call of, "Are you in there?" and he recognised the voice instantly. Sighing, he turned to stare idly at the window to his left and called back "This better not be a waste of my time."

The door opened with a creak, and the patter of footsteps edged closer to front of his desk, though he kept his eyes firmly on the window frame, pretending to stare out of it.

"We're ready to start rehearsing," said the same, divine voice, "I thought maybe you would like to come down and-"  
"-I'll be there in a minute." He replied curtly, already feeling too exhausted to be enthused for the day ahead.

A pause, then a soft, "Alright." Accompanied by the sound of retreating footsteps.

He rubbed a weary hand over his face. "Christine." He called, his voice muffled behind his fingers.

The sound of footsteps stopped and he turned his head.

_I used to fancy myself f half in love with her_, he mused as he studied the vision that stood in his doorway. It wasn't difficult to see why, he thought; she was undeniably pretty, in a sort of charmingly innocent way. Her cropped hair was fair, as was her skin, but she wore no noticeable makeup as most other girls her age he knew did, and her starkly simplistic clothes (a grey, shapeless dress that covered her arms to her wrists and fell below the knee) were evidently low-cost, but her fine features and voice- _oh_, and what a voice it could be- were enough to tug teasingly at his heartstrings even now.

He tried to speak, but his words seemed to falter. He rose quickly from his desk and made to push past her into the hallway, but she placed a restraining hand on his shoulder in passing.  
"Is it really that bad?" she spoke softly, her large round eyes sparkling at him. He thought of the papers on his desk, and he knew what she was asking.

"'Tis." He answered as he carried on into the hall and strode toward the staircase, wondering how many more people he would have to fire by the end of the day.

* * *

Rehearsals ticked by slowly long into the afternoon, and many times throughout the day, Christine caught herself staring at her director.

Charlie had a thin though not unattractive face and slightly unkempt hair the colour of dark chocolate. She had never asked, but supposed him to be no older than thirty. He tapped his fingers nervously almost all throughout rehearsals as he watched from the front row of the audience, as though he was afraid that the bills and statements on his managerial desk would grow longer in his absence.

Whenever she caught her eyes lingering, she forced herself to return her attention to the scene going on around her, though a growing concern for Charlie lingered in the back of her mind. He had never offered any tangible explanation as to his dual role as both manager and director- he had been as such as long as Christine had been there herself, and likely before that- though now that she considered it, it was likely he simply couldn't afford to pay anyone else to do the job. Charlie had never complained about his double responsibilities, at least not to her, but much like the theatre itself, telltale signs of damage were becoming apparent. The weariness with which he had spoken to her was becoming customary of late, and the roguish spark that once glittered in sea-green eyes was now dulled by a constant expression of worry and frustration.

_He works too much_, Christine thought as she listened to the familiar verse uttered across the stage, "She speaks. O, s-speak again, bright angel, for thou art a-as glorious to this night, being o'er m-my head..."

She forced her eyes away from her director to her counterpart; her Romeo spoke words of love, but they were unmoving, his tone shaky and hollow. A handful of onlookers- other actors and a stagehand or two- waited in the wings of the stage, observing the scene playing out before them.

"... The-the white-upturned wondering eyes of mortals that fall ba-ack to gaze on him when he b-bestrides the lazy-puffing clouds and sails upon the b-bosom of the air."

Charlie had once mentioned to her that he thought David (an awfully nervous, pubescent boy who served as her Romeo) would be better suited as a stagehand than an actor, but few were willing to work for as low a salary as he offered.

They had no balcony to speak of; instead, Christine stood behind a row of wooden chairs as she recited her lines from memory, "O Romeo, Romeo! Wherefore out thou Romeo? Deny thy father and refuse thy name; or, if thou wilt not, be but sworn my love, and I'll no longer be a Capulet."

She sneaked another glance at Charlie. He wasn't even looking at the stage; instead, his eyes seemed to stare idly into space above their heads, though his expression was strangely tense.

"Sh-shall I hear more, or shall I-I-I speak at... at-"

"-OH FOR GOD'S SAKE!"

Everyone stilled at the exclamation. Charlie had risen from his position in the audience and was marching up the small set of stairs on the far side of the stage.

"If you're going to botch one of the greatest plays in history at least do it with some bloody confidence!" He yelled as he marched toward David and snatched the pages of script from his shaky hands. The younger man backed away fearfully, a sheen of sweat forming on his pale brow.

He turned toward Christine, his gaze frank. "Well? Carry on!"

She was momentarily startled, before quickly recalling her lines, "'Tis but thy name that is my enemy: Thou art thyself, though not a Montague. What's Montague? It is nor hand, nor foot, nor arm, nor face, nor any other part belonging to a man..."

He continued to stare at her, unmoving from his position across the stage. Was he to read the part himself?

"... O, be some other name. What's in a name? That which we call a rose by any other name would smell as sweet; so Romeo would, were he not Romeo call'd, retain that dear perfection which he owes without that title. Romeo, doff thy name, and for that name, which is no part of thee, take all myself."

A pause, then: "I take thee at thy word. Call me but love, and I'll be new baptis'd; henceforth I never will be Romeo."

His words were not only clear, but also laden with improvised emotion. She suddenly felt a strange surge of confidence and the words flowed even easier from her lips. "What man art thou that, thus bescreened in night, so stumblest on my counsel?"

The scene continued on in a similar fashion. Charlie continued to clutch the section of script in his hands as he recited Romeo's words, though he didn't seem to be looking at it. The remainder of the scene seemed to pass by all too quickly, her mind totally absorbed in the exchange between her and her spontaneous Romeo.

"... Sweet Montague, be true. Stay but a little, and I will come again." She spoke, bringing the scene to a close. Once again, everyone on the stage seemed to still, their attentions directed at the strange man clutching the script.

As if suddenly aware of himself, Charlie turned to where David had been standing by the stage curtain and thrust the pages into his chest. "You're fired." He breathed and stalked away behind the curtain.

For a moment Christine remained immobile, startled by her director's actions. A wave of concerned flooded over her and she quickly followed him, almost certain of where he had headed; the creaking sounds of the aged staircases overhead told her she was right. She was vaguely aware of someone calling her name as she reached the base of the first stairs, but she took no notice.

She ascended the stairs quickly, tripping once or twice on the uneven steps. When she reached the uppermost floor she saw the door to his office had been left wide open, something he never did, preferring to keep it shut at all times and imposing a firm rule about knocking before entering. She slowed as she approached his office and walked in. As she had suspected, he was nowhere to be seen, but the sole window in the room had been pushed open. She moved toward it and peered out; sure enough, he stood on the adjoining fire escape with his elbows leant on the railing. She clambered out after him, a manoeuvre made slightly awkward by the constrains of her dress, but remained close to the window, should he remark he wished to be left alone. The metal structure was rusted and slightly shaky, she almost feared it might collapse.

"Why are you here?" he asked. His eyes were directed forward at the gritty alleyway beneath them that led out into the street opposite.

"I'm worried about you." She replied, venturing a step toward him.

"That's not what I meant." He said, surprising her. "I mean, why are you _here_? I've heard you sing, Christine, you could be in any damn opera or stage show on Broadway, so why aren't you? Don't tell me you'd rather be here, 'cause that's rubbish and you know it. No one in their right mind would be..."

She didn't know what to tell him. She wouldn't deny she had _tried _for the things he spoke of, and her heart certainly was in song more than drama, but she had found time again that such prestigious establishments wouldn't look twice at such a young hopeful with no previous credentials or connections.

Eventually, she settled on: "Because _you _need me here."

He laughed at that, but it was a bitter, humourless laugh, "Do you know how much I wish that wasn't true? Don't get me wrong, you're a damn godsend, love, but God sent me an angel, and it still couldn't save my theatre." He rested his chin on his hands and stared at the dirt ground beneath them. "And now I'm dragging his gift down on a sinking ship..."

The bitterness was replaced by genuine anguish. He had put his life into the theatre, and now it was crumbling around him. Christine felt her heart break for him. "There must be something... something anyone could do..."

"Not unless you can come up with a hell of a lot of money in less than a lifetime." He said wryly.

"How much?"

He finally looked at her, his expression solemn. "Have a look for yourself. It's all there." He nodded in the direction of his office, and then returned his gaze to the alleyway.

Christine clambered back through the open window and approached the papers lying atop his desk. She scanned them quickly, and though some of the figures didn't make obvious sense to her, her basic arithmetic ability was enough to lay the problem clear before her eyes. She returned to the window and settled for a seat on the windowsill.

"How long before..." she trailed off. The thought was too distressing to even consider.

Charlie seemed to understand what she meant. "At this rate I doubt we'll even make it to the next opening night."

They lapsed into a disheartened silence; the seemingly distant rumble of traffic and general city life were the only apparent sounds. Christine took another moment to study the man in front of her. He was clad in a deep-blue smoking jacket over his shirt and trousers, but that wasn't unusual. He rarely seemed to wear anything else. His eyes had drifted shut though his mouth and jaw were tense. He seemed older than ever.

She knew that what he had asked (if it was even really a question) was impossible. No one she knew of in connection with the theatre had that kind of money to spare. _Unless_...

A small, flickering suggestion in the back of her mind quickly turned into a roaring, blazing fire of an idea. She knew what she could do, _if only it would work_... "Can I use your telephone?"

His eyes opened and he looked at her quizzically for a moment before shrugging his shoulders. "On the desk." He murmured.

She rose from the windowsill and walked around to the far side of his desk where a relatively new-looking black Model 102 sat beside a thick, leather-bound book. She held the receiver to her ear and dialled the number, all the while glancing back toward the open window. She waited while she was connected to the switchboard and tapped her foot anxiously as the ringing sound filled her eyes. A moment later, a slightly hoarse but familiar phone answered, "De Changy residence."

"Raoul?" she said, "It's me. Can we meet? I have a favour to ask you..."

* * *

"You test my patience, _monsieur_."

The figure in the shadows cringed beyond a façade of black porcelain. The Americans truly did murder the French _langue_, but now was not the time for such trivialities.

"And you test _my _patience, Sir." Replied the shadowy figure, and he was delighted to see the man in question shiver noticeably at the sound of his menacing voice. "I was promised payment, was I not?"

The man in the light seemed to regain his composure. "You were, _after _you completed your job... Seems to me like you've barely started and you've already failed once."

The shadowy figure tensed and subconsciously stroked the rope-like contraption concealed in the folds of his attire. _Not yet_...

"To kill a band of men takes but mere seconds, but to destroy them, far longer." The shadow offered, watching with hawk-like precision as the man before him withdrew a cigarette and a small, metallic contraption from his pocket, from which he produced a small flame and light his cigarette.

Behind a cloud of exhaled smoke, the man replied, "Then I do not care how you do it. Just get it done... did you discover who compromised your earlier attempt?"

The shadow hesitated, choosing his words carefully. "I have my suspicions. They will cease to be a hindrance to me."

The smoking man grinned behind the swirling tendrils of smoke, "Then Godspeed to you."


	4. Sunrise

**Author's Note: It's been a fair bit longer since the last update then I would have liked, but I'm all done with my mid-term exams and on a break, so the next few updates should hopefully be a little more regular. As always, please review and keep reading!  
**

* * *

He was alone in the theatre for some time. The rest of the theatre personnel had seemingly taken his unusual outburst as a signal that rehearsals had ceased for the day, and Christine had left a short time later to go meet with the boy.

Charlie sat alone in the centre of the stage, the main overhead lights glowing and an assortment of papers scattered around him. He felt more at peace on the stage, rather than the cramped, lackluster space of his office. He sat cross-legged, hunched over his paperwork with a distressed expression engraved into his tired face. His fountain pen was leaking oily black ink all over his fingers, and finding a miracle solution to the conundrum written in front of him was looking increasingly impossible. There was simply no money anywhere he looked, not in the business accounts or his own, and the debts weren't getting any smaller.

As he stared idly at the papers surrounding him, tapping his pen against one knee, Charlie couldn't help but think about Christine. Had it truly only been near four years since he had met her? He often felt as though he'd known her all his life. She had been but sixteen when they met, a young girl on the cusp of maturity; now, she was a grown woman, on the verge of marriage to one of the social elite.

One day, he had asked her candidly over a shared pot of tea whether or not she was going to marry the boy. She had merely blushed in an awfully charming way and lied that she hadn't even thought about it.

Charlie hadn't met the boy properly, but his reputation had preceded him. Raoul de Changy's family existed amongst the utmost class of New York society along with his brother Philippe, the popular heir to the de Changy business empire. Charlie knew Christine cared little for wealth, however, and cared more about the fact that he was simply a good man. It seemed inevitable that she would marry him eventually. Charlie supposed he should be happy for her, and yet...

"Charlie?"

He looked up sharply. The young woman in question was standing at the other end of the room along with a young man who could only be Raoul de Changy.

_Did I not lock the doors...?_

"Christine." He said, grabbing the nearest paper to him, trying to look busy. "It's late. I'd thought you'd left for the night." He was feeling strangely uncomfortable under their gazes, notably that of the young man next to her, who even from a distance seemed to be surveying him with a curious interest.

"I had, but, well..." she glanced briefly at the boy before looking back at him with a striking smile, "I think I know how we can save the theatre."

He raised an eyebrow in surprise. "Oh?" He said, though knew he shouldn't get his hopes up- he had spent countless hours trying to devise a solution, and he had failed at every turn. Yet there was no harm in it, surely...

She hurried toward him along the middle aisle between the audience chairs, pulling the young man with her by his hand. They ascended the small set of stairs on the left side of the stage and crossed the stage, stopping a few feet away from him.

"I know you've never been properly introduced; Charlie, this is Raoul, my..." she trailed off awkwardly, as though she had no idea what came next.

Charlie made no attempt to stand but raised a hand and offered it to de Changy. He was an evidently good-looking young man- a set of boyishly handsome features, cropped dark-blonde hair and cobalt blue eyes, and wore a finely pressed, three-piece-suit over his well-built frame. Even from his position on the floor, Charlie could tell that the younger man was considerably taller then he was. De Changy easily stood a head taller than Christine, whereas Charlie himself stood a mere inch or two taller.

De Changy took his hand. "It's a pleasure, sir." He said politely. "I've heard so much about you."

"Must have been awful." Charlie remarked. He looked to Christine. "You wanted to say something?"

It was de Changy who spoke. "Actually, I have a proposition for you: I wish to buy your theatre."

He promptly dropped his pen. It clattered as it hit the wooden floorboards, and a stream of black ink began to bleed from the cracks in the casing. "_Come again_?"

"It was Christine's idea." De Changy replied, a pleasant smile about his lips. "She told me the theatre was having some financial difficulties-"

Charlie looked sharply at Christine. "You _told_ him?" His fountain pen was leaking ink all over a pile of bank letters, but he didn't care at that moment. His surprise at de Changy's proposition had unsettled him enough, and now he knew that Christine had shared the bleak nature of the situation with him as well.

Christine looked uncomfortable, but her sweet voice was still laden with optimism. "I did, and I'm sorry I didn't tell you, but it was with good reason I promise." She took de Changy's hand in her own. "You said you needed money, and Raoul-"

"-Has got plenty, so I should sign over the deed?" He snapped, clambering to his knees and beginning to gather his papers. "Gain the money and loose my theatre?"

The last hint of a smile disappeared from her porcelain face. "No, no that isn't-"

De Changy took a small step forward. "What Christine suggested to me is that I buy your theatre, but that you would continue to run it. I'd be more of a patron than a manager; that post would be yours and yours alone, if you wish. I would pay you well, - I hardly expect you to hand it over for free- and I'd treat it like an investment. I would take a portion of the revenue and let you handle the rest of it; production, employees, it's all yours. It'll solve your money problems, and you get to keep your theatre."

Silence fell. Charlie looked between the young lovers, at the papers in his ink-stained hands, at the stage around him, then again at the two of them.

"_No_."

He clambered awkwardly to his feet, papers in hand as anger gripped at his insides. He made to stride away behind the stage curtains when he felt a hand catch his elbow. "Sir, please-"

He whirled around, pulling his arm away and dropping several of his papers. "I said _No_, and that's all there is to it." He said harshly.

De Changy dropped his arm to his side. Christine was looking at him pleadingly. "Charlie, please just listen..."

"I said _No_." he repeated. He was getting close to shouting now. "How can you expect me to just give up my theatre, after everything I've done? I thought _you_ at least knew me better than that."

"I'm not trying to take it away from you, Charlie." She said softly. "I just want to help. It would still be your-"

"No it wouldn't!" He shouted abruptly. He paused, taking deep breaths and forcing himself to calm. "No it wouldn't." he repeated, softer this time but still firm. "It'll never be mine again if I give it away. This," he motioned to the stage around them, "all of this, this is my life, Christine. It's sure as all hell not perfect, but it's _my _life. It may be the worst bloody theatre in America, but God knows I love it. And I thought you did too... I thought... we were in it together..."

Christine's eyes were glistening in the glow of the overhead light. De Changy was giving him a curious look that he couldn't quite deduce the meaning of. The young man then looked to Christine, gave her a light touch on the shoulder and a slight nod. Christine looked uncertainly between the two men for a moment, then said: "I think I may have left my bag upstairs earlier... If you're sure you're not interested, I'll go and get it and we'll leave you alone." She crossed the stage and disappeared behind the curtain, her light footsteps echoing in the still and silent room. The usual creaking and groaning of the ascending staircases followed, which grew fainter with each passing second until it almost disappeared entirely.

Charlie knew for a fact that Christine always left her personal items behind the desk in the entrance room whenever she came for rehearsal, but he still felt a guilty pang in his stomach; he truly hadn't meant to upset her, even if he was still a little irritate. De Changy hadn't moved from his spot and was regarding him with the same curious look he had moments ago. Charlie bent to retrieve his wayward papers when the younger man's well-spoken voice cut through the surrounding silence. "Do you love her?"

He was so startled he almost slipped over in his awkward half-crouched position. He laid a hand on the floor to steady himself and looked up at de Changy. "_What_?"

"Do you love her?" he repeated.

Suddenly, Charlie understood the meaning of the strange look de Changy had been giving him. He gathered his papers. "Don't be stupid, Changy. Stupid people shouldn't wear suits like that."

A smile tugged at the corners of de Changy's finely chiseled lips. "I shall have to inform my tailor. But in all seriousness, sir, I assure you I'm not a total fool, and nor do you seem to be. You're educated, clearly-

Charlie stood, irked by his need to look up at de Changy to look him in the eye. "What makes you think that?"

De Changy motioned to the papers in his hands with an inclination of his head. "Well, you can obviously read at length, and you write with a fine hand... and honestly, I've never met an uneducated man to wear such a fine smoking jacket."

Charlie looked down at his torso. Perhaps the jacket had been fine once, but years of wear had left the deep blue velvet worn and patchy. The black, quilted lapels and cuffs had lost some of their intricate gold embroidery and also sported numerous tiny holes and ink stains. He wore it almost constantly, and would never willingly part with it.

"I attended many places." He said simply. "I tend to loose count. And you?"

"Groton." Replied de Changy. "Christine never did tell me you were English."

He looked up. "What gave me away?" He said dryly, though he knew it was the distinct accent he spoke with.

"Your handshake." Said de Changy, a small smile about his lips. Charlie looked at him quizzically, when there came a sudden, resounding groan- the sound of straining timber- from somewhere up above them. De Changy glanced up sharply.

"Don't worry yourself about that." Said Charlie. "There's plenty more of those where that came from. This place is a ruin."

He made to walk away when de Changy spoke: "It doesn't have to be."

He caught on to his meaning quickly. He looked the young man firmly in the eyes. "I know a man in your... position, is probably not used to people telling him No, but frankly, I don't care if you're a de Changy or the bloody President, you can't have my theatre, and that's the end of it."

He turned away and made it two steps in the opposite direction when the younger man spoke again: "You love Christine-"

He spun around sharply. "No I don't!" he said, well aware that he probably sounded like a petulant child. "I don't. She's swell, really, but no. And even if I did, she's with you, isn't she?"

De Changy's face grew somber for a moment. _Does he pity me? _" She is, and I know she loves me as I love her, but I don't believe you." He said softly.

Charlie frowned. "And why not?"

"Because I've never seen a man look at a woman he's not in love with the way you look at her." The younger man replied. "You say this place is in ruin, but you didn't hear the rest of my proposal."

Charlie sighed, feeling too tired to carry on arguing with him. For now. "Go on then. Dazzle me."

He straightened, businesslike. "Well, even if I did pay for this theatre and all its debts, realistically, it still won't make any serious revenue without some fairly drastic changes. It's far too small, it just gets lost in the space…" he glanced at the stage around them for a moment before returning his eyes to Charlie's. "The building next door, the larger one, Christine says it's vacant?"

Charlie nodded, suddenly curious. "There was a fire. Burnt out on the inside, apparently."

He nodded. "I see. Well, what I propose- well it was Christine's idea really- is that _I_ buy the building, and we move the theatre next door. It will need serious repairs and restoring, of course, but that will all be paid for. I will oversee it all, but ultimately everything will be your decision. Once the repairs are completed, you can move out of this building and decide what it is you'd like to do with it; keep it, sell it to me or anyone else, it's up to you." He stepped closer. "There'll be a Grand Opening, of course, and I'll use whatever influence I can to make sure all the right people are there: actors, singers, newspapers, we won't want for publicity. After that, it's all over to you. _And_," He paused briefly, then: "if you ever want to buy it back, I'll gladly sell it to you for whatever it's worth at the time. I won't sell to anyone else without your consent. I intend to take this seriously, but I'm not exactly relying on it for my livelihood."

Charlie couldn't quite believe what he was hearing. He tried to take a step forward, but his legs seemed to have forgotten how to work.

"Why are you doing this?"

De Changy looked slightly affronted. "If you doubt my sincerity-"

"-I doubt everything." He interjected. "It doesn't make sense. No doubt you're already part of your family's company: you operate in manufacturing- "

"- Construction- "

"- Not the arts, and yet you're apparently willing to pour your upstage money into a broken theatre owned by someone you've known for, what, ten minutes? So yes, forgive me if I don't _believe_ you."

The air stilled and silence fell. It seemed for a moment they had reached a stalemate. A frown set in to de Changy's handsome, features. He closed his eyes momentarily, as if in deeper thought.

When they reopened, his eyes met Charlie's and the frown seemed to dissolve, replaced with a more solemn expression. "I understand it's not ideal, but it's clear that you love your theatre, and I can see that Christine loves it just as much. Loosing this place would crush her, and her happiness is more important to me than anything. So if you won't do this for yourself, then please, at least do it for her."

They lapsed in to silence once more. Charlie couldn't remember ever truly being lost for words, but he was sure that this was what it must be like. It seemed like so long that he had been searching for an answer to his problem, and here was this charismatic young man, seemingly offering him the miracle he had been looking for. Perhaps it wasn't perfect, but did he have any other choice? And then, there was Christine...

After several moments he found his voice, though an uncomfortable knot was forming in his chest. "You know if I knew that a charming English chap was stuck on _my_ prospective other half, I'd want to consider whether or not I had any feelings of wanting to, well, _kill_ him before I started spending a lot of time with him. Something you may want to think about." He remarked.

De Changy smiled. "I'll be sure to consider it, should I ever meet any charming Englishmen... are we agreed then?" he said, offering his hand.

Charlie looked from the young man's outstretched hand to his face. He made to clasp his hand, then hesitated, his thoughts churning.

"Don't ever call me _Sir_ ever again." He settled on.

De Changy quirked an eyebrow, but the smile remained. "So long as you call me Raoul."

A pause, then: "Agreed..." he said as he raised his arm from his side.

No sooner had they joined hand than a scream rang out in the upper levels of the theatre.

* * *

"Pass the bottle."

Frost took a swig from his bottle and reached for his forty-second cigarette of the day. "Fuck off."

"I'm all out." Leggy griped.

"Not my problem." Said Frost as he placed the bottle on the grimy floor next to him slipped the cigarette and a matchbox from his pocket.

Leggy muttered an unintelligible response from his position slumped over the table and returned to his usual brooding silence.

Frost pulled his coat tighter around his frame against the cold air in the room. The four walls, floor and ceiling were all concrete, covered in a strange grimy residue. The room was totally bare but for a crooked table, an equally crooked chair, a kerosene lamp that cast a faint glow over the room, a single window and the two brooding men.

Frost placed the cigarette between his sore, cracked lips, struck a match and lit the cigarette. He tossed the used match into the mounting pile on the floor to his left and took a deep drag.

Frost glanced at the window on the opposite wall- _Still dark_, he thought, - and wondered for what felt like the hundredth time that night where his boss and colleague were.

_McG_ _may be a mug, but at least he's a laugh_, Frost thought as he kneaded his temples. His head was throbbing; he was so tired he felt like someone had put iron weights on his eyelids. It was far closer to dawn than sunset by now, but he didn't dare let his Boss, who was several hours late himself, find him asleep. He hadn't seen McG since the day before, when he'd left to go play messenger boy, and his Boss not for several days before that. Ghost rarely showed up at the hideout, and never hung around for long, making it plain to his employees that he had more important places to be. Frost knew it peeved McG to no end- "Why should we be wasting our time for 'im when he ain't givin' us any o' his?"- But he knew he was smarter then McG. He knew never to question Ghost. McG was buddy, and the best shot Frost had ever seen, but he was also rash, and, Frost thought, without a gun in his hand, _weak_. He may be less of a coward than Carnie, but Carnie at least didn't hide his cowardice behind a charade of strength.

Frost crushed his burnt-out cigarette under his foot and let his thoughts wonder again- sitting here on the cold and grimy floor with his back against the wall, along with his last bottle of gin and no one but Leggy for company (who was as good at talking as he was abstaining from drinking), there was little else to do. His memories flicked through his mind like the slow-turning pages of book, some pages clear and others murky. He had just come across an old, pleasant memory of necking with a redheaded doll in a Buick coupe when he was startled from his thoughts by the sound of a door being thrown open and slamming against the wall. Frost looked up sharply. Even Leggy straightened up as if he'd been prodded with a branding iron.

Ghost was standing at the other end of the room, looking straight at him.

The echo of door against wall rang out in the air. Ghost, clad in his usual all-black ensemble- suit, hat, gloves, coat, and of course, _mask_- didn't move from his spot in the doorway, his unnatural eyes gleaming in the dim light of the room.

"Is it done?"

That voice never failed to cut right through him like a knife. So unnatural, yet it was real. Frost forced himself to keep a neutral face. "Yes." he said simply.

"And where is he now?"

"Swimming."

His Boss gave an odd twitch of the head, which he supposed was a nod. The faint light of the lamp caught the edge of his jaw and the underside of his chin; the only patch of exposed skin from head to toe, which looked almost grey in the light.

Frost realised his eyes were lingering and quickly averted his gaze. Boss didn't take kindly to people looking at his mask for too long, and God help them if they _asked _about it...

Frost bit the inside of his cheek, choosing his words carefully. "McG not with you, Boss?" He knew what Ghost did to anyone who asked too many questions, but he had learnt how to be cautious.

There was a beat of silence, then: "He is indisposed. As I understand is Carnell."

Frost couldn't help but raise an eyebrow. _Indisposed...? _He sneaked a glance at Leggy, whose hard, swarthy face was just as expressionless as ever, the lamp on the table casting soft shadows on his sharp features.

Frost returned his gaze to Ghost and cleared his throat. "Took a slug to the leg." He confirmed.

"And is licking his wounds in Brooklyn like a simpering dog, so I have heard." His Boss's haunting voice was laced with a snarl. He stepped forward into the room, his shoes making no noise against the concrete floor. "He will answer for his cowardice, but I will hear no more of it now. And neither will you imitate his actions; neither of you will be leaving Manhattan-"

It was going well until Leggy opened his mouth.

"How can we," he muttered in a drunken slur, "we're always stuck here waiting around for you. Where the hell were you anyway-"

It happened so fast that the next thing Frost was aware of was the clatter of the upturned wooden chair against the floor and the sounding of erratic wheezing and gagging. Leggy was writhing on the floor, clawing at this throat while Ghost towered over him, rope in hand.

"Didn't your mother ever teach you any manners, Ripley?" said Ghost, his golden eyes ablaze in the eyeholes of his black mask.

Leggy wheezed and spluttered as he thrashed on the floor, grabbing madly at the lasso that was tightening around his neck and turning his swarthy face an unpleasant shade of purple. Frost couldn't take his eyes away.

Ghost laughed, but there was no joy in it; it was cold, eerie and torturous. "Funny isn't it, Mr. Frost, how some men never fear death until they must look it in the eye..."

Frost made no move. He watched on in fascination as Leggy made a strangled sound like a scream, his blotchy purple skin growing darker and the blue veins in his neck looking as though they were about to burst out of his skin...

And then it was over. The lasso loosened and slipped off Leggy's neck. He scrambled to his hands and knees, heaving and gasping for air.

"_Pathetic_." Ghost sneered as he gathered the lasso in his gloved hands. His gleaming eyes shifted to Frost, as if waiting for him to comment.

Frost shifted. "Won't disagree with ya 'bout the manners, Boss."

Ghost said nothing, but stored the lasso in the folds of his clothes. Leggy was struggling to get to his feet, still coughing and heaving.

Ghost took a step forward. "There has been a change of plan..."

Frost listened with intent. Leggy stayed huddled against the leg of the table, breathing heavily coughing occasionally. Ghost laid every detail before them, though Frost noted he omitted any mention of McG or his whereabouts. Frost didn't know how long he listened, but when Ghost retrieved a thick brown package from the folds of his clothes, laid it at his feet and promptly left, he could feel his blood bubbling with the thrill of adrenaline.

He drained the last of his bottle with one swig and looked out the window. The sun was rising over Manhattan.

* * *

**1920's slang dictionary**

**'Swell'- **Wonderful

**(To be) 'stuck on'- **Infatuated with

**'Mug'- **Man, especially a stupid one

**'Doll'- **An attractive woman

**'Necking'**- Passionately kissing


End file.
